


With The Sword of Truth

by orphan_account



Series: All Roads Lead to Ankh-Morpork [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Gen, Journalism, Post Reichenbach, outsider's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a story behind everything, after all. William de Worde knows this better than anyone, and investigates into Sherlock Holmes's death, intending to get at the truth.</p><p>Unfortunately, some people want to get at William first before he can do that. On top of that, he needs to deal with a doctor with trust issues, figure out who exactly is that man in a hoodie following him around, dodge attempts on his life, and, of course, deal with humorous vegetables.</p><p>Some things just don't change anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whatever Remains Must Be The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall, even though I’ve never watched it. Also I guessed Sherlock’s age, anyone want to correct me? Also, Britpicking would be appreciated, thank you.
> 
> Also, I have this up on my Tumblr as well! [Here](http://hereforthemagic.tumblr.com/post/18992319473/fic-whatever-remains-must-be-the-truth-part-1), if you want to read the unpolished version.

William de Worde is, by nature, a skeptic, born and raised to trust and tell the truth and only the truth. It’s how he makes his living, after all.

And he’s got his doubts about this one.

\--

“Fake Genius Commits Suicide,” the papers read the day after Sherlock Holmes falls off the rooftop of St. Bart’s in London. William doesn’t know what possesses him to pick up the Inquirer—they’re a bunch of sodding idiots who don’t know the first thing about journalism, in his opinion—but on that day, on his way to the Times office, he buys it and reads the article.

Minutes later he’s throwing the paper into the trash.

Sodding idiots, the lot of them.

Something in his gut is telling him there’s a story behind this. It’s more than just a fake genius committing suicide, more than humorous vegetables and Gorgons in the City Watch, _so much more_ than all that. There’s something missing here, something big, and William’s inner editor is already thinking up the lead to this one.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, 34, has committed suicide by jumping off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. The Times believes, though, that the allegations made about his deductive abilities are false…_

—

“Do you think Sherlock Holmes is a fraud?” Sacharissa asks, as they’re going to the bank to cover one of Moist von Lipwig’s controversial new ideas.

William looks up from his notebook. “Er…why?” he asks. “You know I don’t check the Internet everyday.” _Unlike some people,_ he thinks, but he’s long accepted that part of Sacharissa: the part that’s willing to do anything to get at the truth, even if it means staring at a computer for hours on end.

“You know, that consulting detective in London,” she says. “The one who committed suicide.”

“Why do you want to know?” he wonders.

“Because there’s something off about that,” she replies. “He’s solved a lot of cases, hasn’t he?”

“He’s a bloody detective, of course he solves cases,” he says. “Isn’t that sort of the point?”

“Yes, but everyone’s saying he’s faked them all,” she says. “Honestly, I think it’s impossible. Some of them were from before he was even born.”

He stops in his tracks, processing these words.

“William?”

“He’s innocent,” William says. “I know that much from what you’ve told me, and I have to know more. When’s the next train to London?”

“You’re not going to go to London, are you?” she asks, but he’s already hurrying off and she has to speed up her pace to catch up with him.

“There’s a story in this, I know it,” he says, walking briskly. He’s on fire, he knows, and he’s going to add fuel to it. “Stay here, you know Mr. Lipwig better than I do.”

“Yes, but you go out to the pub with him every Friday night!”

“Can we not talk about that?” he pleads. “Anyway, I’ll try to keep in touch.”

His hand brushes against hers, and he feels the wedding ring she wears. His heart beats faster—they’ve been married a while now, but it still makes him feel strange, to know that he is hers and she is his.

But that doesn’t matter, right now. There’s a story out there, in London. He needs to find it, and drag it out for the world to see.

And he thinks he knows where to start.

\--

It’s laughably easy to get himself a reservation near Baker Street, these days. All he has to say is that he’s from the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ and he wants to write up an article on Sherlock Holmes, and the people at Wigmore Court Hotel arrange their very best room for him at a discount. He gets the feeling that Vetinari has some clout in London, though why he’d arrange for William to get a discount, he has no idea.

He’s not complaining, though. The beds are comfy.

\--

It’s a day after he arrives in London that he visits where Sherlock Holmes lived: 221B Baker Street, going by the now-barely updated blog of Dr. John Watson, one of the detective’s friends.

When he gets there, he’s standing in front of a memorial.

“I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.” “RICHARD BROOK = FRAUD.” “MORIARTY WAS REAL.” “WATSON WARRIORS WERE HERE.” "I AM FIGHTING JOHN WATSON'S WAR." “WE BELIEVE.”

He reads all the messages, feeling like he’s a stranger invading someone’s personal space. In a way, he is, but he’s more aware of it now than before.

He looks up at the door, and sighs. Yep, there’s a banner, saying “SHERLOCK HOLMES IS INNOCENT”. The lengths some people will go to, to prove the innocence of one man.

And it’s the lengths he’s going to now, to dig out the truth.

William sucks in a deep breath, walks up to the door—

“Who are you?”

He stops, then turns around to see a man in a woolly jumper. It takes a moment for him to recognize him as Dr. John Watson—Sherlock Holmes’s constant companion, the one who's blogged about his adventures with him, the one responsible for Holmes's fame.

“I’m William de Worde, from the Ankh-Morpork Times,” he says, holding out his hand. “Dr. John Watson, I presume? I’d like to talk to you about—”

“Sherlock, I know,” the doctor sighs. “Look, I already told the Inquirer that Sherlock is innocent. I don't want to answer questions about how it felt like to live with a twisted madman from the Times as well.”

“I know,” William replies. “I have reason to believe so as well.”

The man’s eyes widen in surprise, and William wonders if he’s grown so used to reporters asking the other question that to hear this coming from him…

…maybe he’s doing this too soon.

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, sir,” he sincerely says.

Dr. Watson holds up a hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to you. Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll make you some tea.”


	2. The Best Vindication Against Slander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William conducts an interview and gets shot at by what he thinks is an Assassin. Typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, spoilers for TRF again. Hopefully I didn't screw up the interview process. Also, I think John's a little off, so any advice and general Britpicking will be heartily appreciated.
> 
> Original Tumblr version [here!](http://hereforthemagic.tumblr.com/post/19050185029/fic-whatever-remains-must-be-the-truth-part-2)

“Sorry if the flat’s a bit of a mess,” Dr. Watson says, pouring out a cup of tea as William shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. “Mrs. Hudson and I just haven’t gotten around to clearing it out yet.”

221B Baker Street is…not what he expected, certainly. Then again, what was he expecting? Something that says, “A consulting detective used to live here before committing suicide,” perhaps?

But certainly, it’s not what he expected. The place is somewhat neat—someone’s cleaned up recently, it seems—and the wallpaper is new, though there are trinkets around that indicate that no one is willing enough to throw them away. But there are a few things that take him by surprise.

“Is that a human skull?” he asks, staring at the grinning skull on the mantelpiece.

Dr. Watson just shrugs. “It was Sherlock’s,” he says, then, correcting himself, “Not his skull, exactly, just…I’m not sure how he got it, and I’d rather not find out.”

William shivers, but turns his attention to the doctor. “Is that lemon tea?” he asks, and it occurs to him that he’s barely eaten his breakfast and forgotten his tea in his hurry to get to Baker Street. “Oh, gods.”

“I’ve been told I make a mean cup of tea,” Dr. Watson modestly says, then gestures to the other armchair—someone hasn’t had the heart to take it out, it seems, along with the other odds and ends. And the skull, don't forget that. “Take a seat. I’ll try to answer any questions you have, but I can’t promise anything.”

He sits down, and digs in his pocket for the recorder Sacharissa bought him some time ago. ( _“Honestly, William,” he can hear her say, “sometimes I just can’t understand your shorthand! At least promise me you’ll use this for interviews.”_ )

“So, let’s begin,” he says, starting up the recorder and placing it on the table as he picks up his tea. “Dr. John H. Watson, right? From what I’ve heard from some of my colleagues, you blogged about the crimes you and Mr. Holmes solved.”

The doctor nods. “It started as…therapy, actually.”

William can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. He can’t do it as well as Vetinari, but it’s good enough to scare quite a few underlings into doing their job. “Therapy?” he asks.

“My therapist recommended that I start up a blog,” he sighs. “I wasn’t really interested in it, at least at first. At the same time, I was looking for a flat, and someone introduced me to Sherlock.”

“And the rest is history?” he jokes, and regrets it. He shouldn’t be doing this, really. Sacharissa has the more experience with interviews between the two of them, and he didn’t even think to bring Otto along to take pictures. Camera phones are not the same thing as professional icono/photographers.

But Dr. Watson just laughs. “You could say that,” he replies. “Anyway, the first time we met, he deduced bloody well everything about me. That’s why I know he wasn’t faking it. He couldn’t have known about some of those details, if he wasn’t as clever as he said he was.”

“I see,” William says, sipping his tea. “I’m sure that, by now, you’re more than aware of the memorial outside. What do you think of it?”

“It’s nice,” Dr. Watson replies. “It makes me feel better, knowing I’m not the only one who doesn’t think he was a fraud. Of course trying to deface public buildings and private properties with ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ is a bit not good, though.”

William’s about to ask him what, exactly, does he mean, when he remembers the graffiti found on the Times building, the day after Sherlock’s fall, and the recurring appearances of the phrase around Ankh-Morpork. He chokes the groan before it can escape his mouth.

“Rather devoted of them, though, to deface public structures in his name,” he mutters, then continues, “Anything else you might like to say?”

Dr. Watson blinks at him for a moment. “That’s it?”

“Not really,” he admits, “but I didn’t think to put down the questions I wanted to ask. An amateur mistake, but I was a bit excited.”

“I thought you only heard about Sherlock from your colleagues,” Dr. Watson says, confused.

“You would not believe the amount of graffiti there is in Ankh-Morpork,” he sighs. “And frankly, I wanted to get away for a while.”

Dr. Watson just smiles. “I believe in him,” he simply says. “He was my best friend, and I’ll always believe in him, no matter what.”

\--

_He was my best friend, and I’ll always believe in him, no matter what._

William can’t help but admire him. Faith like that is hard to find these days, and it’s especially hard to find in either Ankh-Morpork or London. And unshakable faith, in the face of overwhelming doubt, is a treasure in a world like this.

He’s on his way to Sherlock Holmes’s grave, accompanied by Dr. Watson, to pay his respects (and write up a bit more on the matter), when it happens.

It all happens so fast, really. One moment he’s talking with the doctor about the advantages and disadvantages of tea and coffee, the next the shorter man looks up then tackles him to the ground, just as a crossbow bolt whizzes past and embeds itself in the wall.

That isn’t really much of a shock. Neither is it much of a shock when both he and Dr. Watson look up to the rooftops and find no one there.

“What the hell…?” he breathes.

William just sighs, staggers to his feet and brushes off the dust, before walking over the crossbow bolt.

“Honestly,” he mutters, “I thought they’d at least have the decency to postpone inhuming me for when I returned.”

“Someone just tried to bloody _kill_ you,” Dr. Watson says, staggering over to his side. “What the hell did you say in your newspaper to piss them off?”

“I tell the truth, and it comes with risks,” he replies, waving a hand. “I’m somewhat used to it by now, anyway. Besides, Assassins have a sense of honor. Twisted, but it’s honor all the same.” _So why would one risk going all the way out to London just to inhume me? That isn’t how they usually do things, and besides, I don't have that big a bounty on my head, do I?_

“Assassins.”

“They’re commonplace back in Ankh-Morpork,” he helpfully provides. “Er…well.”

“And this isn’t the first time, either,” Dr. Watson mutters, and William gets the feeling he’s not really referring to him. “How many times in one day do you get shot at, anyway?”

“After I write something that could upset a lot of people?” He sighs. “At least six times. When the uproar dies down I can rest easier.”

“Six times in one day,” Dr. Watson says. “At least. You’re one of _those_ kinds of journalists, aren’t you?”

He sounds a little relieved, though William thinks he knows what he means. He’s just like Sacharissa in that regard: willing to do anything to get at the truth, even if it might cost him his own life. Oh, he’s been lucky so far, but he remembers when he was just starting out, and he knows that one day, his luck will run out and he’ll end up as just another body outlined in chalk.

But for now…

“I suppose I am,” he says, and he can’t help but smile a little.

He’ll get at the truth. It’s his job. It’s what he does. He can worry about everything later, about why there’s an Assassin all the way out in London. Right now, he needs to find the truth.

And he has a feeling it starts at Sherlock’s grave.


	3. Easier to Perceive Error Than to Find Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William pays his respects to Sherlock Holmes, runs into a cousin of a depressingly familiar face, and notices a man in a grey hoodie.

“So, what was he like?” William asks, a while after the probably-an-Assassin’s attempt on his life.

“An arrogant, insufferable, condescending, manic, _brilliant_ genius,” is Dr. Watson’s reply, and he’s taken aback by the affection, venom, grief, anger and sheer pleasure of knowing this man in his tone. “I almost thought he’d outlive God, trying to have the last word. He would tell you everything about your life within five minutes of your first meeting, and then insult you in every way possible afterwards. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have come up with new ways of insulting people either.”

“Is that so,” William weakly says. “Interesting.”

He’s starting to have a good idea of why people would believe, wholeheartedly, that Sherlock Holmes was a lie. Such an intelligent man, with an ego the size of Unseen University’s Library and the low opinion of other people to go along with it? They’d have taken the first chance they had to take him down, to believe that he wasn’t uncommon, that he was just like them. Just an ordinary man, pretending to be extraordinary. That's all.

“Kept body parts in the kitchen,” Dr. Watson says, and William realizes that he’s not talking to him, precisely, and that they’ve just reached the graveyard Holmes is buried in. “And sometimes he played violin at two A.M.”

“It doesn’t sound that bad,” William remarks.

“Off-key.”

“Oh.” _How did he even put up with him?_ he wonders. _I would’ve moved out the first time._

Then he thinks, _Of course._

It is, if he could say so himself, brilliant. But of course he doesn’t mention it, because Dr. Watson might have heard all the sympathies and “oh, it’s okay”s already. Instead he just gives him a meaningful look that, sadly, goes unnoticed. Or maybe Dr. Watson just chose to ignore it.

Either way, William feels a bit put out.

Dr. Watson greets the graveyard’s keeper with a cheery “Morning,” and gets a, “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya too, Doc,” in return. In contrast, William’s polite “Good morning,” gets a chilly “Off the graves, lad.”

Bit rude, really, and now he feels even more put out. But he soldiers on, and catches up to the good doctor.

He’s a bit surprised to see Sherlock’s grave—a simple marble headstone, with the name “SHERLOCK HOLMES” etched in gold. He’s not sure, but he pictured, from Dr. Watson’s description, something that reflected the detective’s personality: impressive, arrogant, larger than life. Maybe even some sort of fancy quote, like, “Here lies the greatest detective the world has ever known.”

Instead, it’s gold letters on black marble. And, yet, it seems so fitting.

William gets an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he watches the doctor stand in front of the grave. He looks so tired, so broken, so alone, and he isn’t sure what to do. No one’s ever told him what to do, really, in situations like this, where you think you’ve intruded on something particularly private yet don’t know how to remedy it in any way.

He takes the safe solution, and stands off to the side, watches as Dr. Watson tells the grave…things, mostly. Little updates that don’t really impact his story, little tidbits that give him a glimpse into Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They are small and supposedly insignificant, and aren’t really part of the big capital-S _Story_ , yet in their own way, they have a huge importance to the doctor and, perhaps, to the detective buried six feet under.

At the end of it, Dr. Watson pats the marble headstone.

“All right?” William finds himself asking. “Oh—Oh, gods, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Dr. Watson says. “It’s…it’s okay. I’m fine.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

 _Would I act that way if Sacharissa was called a fake and committed suicide?_ William thinks, and feels a pang of sympathy. _No. No, I’d be worse off._

—

It’s a while after Dr. Watson leaves, promising to meet him tomorrow, that William walks up to the grave as well. He doesn’t pat it—too personal—but he does kneel down to place a flower.

“I hear you’re an arrogant sod,” he begins, “and an insufferable genius. I don’t know whether we’d have gotten along if I met you while you were still alive, and we probably wouldn’t, but I do know one thing, Mr. Holmes.

“I know you’re innocent. And I’ll prove it. I bloody well will. I’ll dig out the truth and bring it to light, and at least, at the very least, your name will be cleared. For all that Dr. Watson’s told me you’ve done for others, even if it was just to stave off boredom, you at least deserve that much.”

He stands up, turns around, and walks away, and leaves the grave behind.

—

It’s as he’s walking back to the hotel that he bumps into someone. Or, well, to be exact, he collides into a brick wall, except brick walls don’t move. And they certainly don’t wear green-and-purple monstrosities with yellow-and-red trousers.

…who even wears those these days? Outside of the Fools’ Guild, anyway.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” a voice booms, and William thinks, _Oh, yes, there go my eardrums_. “I wasn’t looking! Clumsy of me, really…”

“No,” he manages, “it’s fine. It’s fine, really.”

He staggers to his feet and almost chokes back a groan.

Oh, he’d recognize that face anywhere.

“Mr. Wintler,” he begins, “I thought you weren’t allowed to travel to London.”

The man gives him a blank stare, then laughs. “Oh, but I’ve always been in London!” he exclaims. “You must be mistaking me for my cousin.”

…oh, gods, Wintler has a cousin. Well, it isn’t like they probably share the same poor sense of humorous vegetables in common, right? Right?

He's aware that he's starting to sound a little desperate here.

“And you,” Wintler’s cousin continues, “must be William de Worde, right? My cousin’s told me all about you! You’re famous in our family, the bloke who started the Ankh-Morpork Times! He loves to talk about you and your paper!”

“I’m flattered, really,” William weakly replies. “But I should really go, I have to get back to my hotel…”

“Don’t go yet!” the other man bellows, and again his eardrums are ringing with the sheer force. _Doesn’t he know how to turn down the volume on his voice?_ “It’s just that I’ve got a really funny leek for you…”

_I really should’ve expected that._

“Actually, sir,” he finally says, “I’m not here for humorous vegetables, I’m here for the Sherlock Holmes story. Please dump your funny leek somewhere else, I’ve had quite enough of vegetables for a lifetime, especially ones that have a silly shape or a human face.”

Unfortunately, the man is, after all, built like a brick wall, and could probably mess up his head and break his arms if he so chooses, and somehow the words get rearranged and scrambled from brain to mouth into, “Erm, really?”

The man beams. “Yep!”

“Well, unfortunately,” he manages to say, “I’m rather peckish right now, and whatever vegetable you might have may just be eaten. And I don’t have a camera so I can take a picture of it before I do, so. You can save it for later, perhaps?”

He silently revels in his victory as the man sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll bring a camera tomorrow, then! And then you can put it in your newspaper, and we can all have a laugh the next family reunion.”

“Yes,” he weakly says. “That’s…rather thoughtful. Thank you. Please go, though, I’d like to go back to my hotel.”

—

It’s a few minutes after his unfortunate encounter with Mr. Wintler’s cousin that he realizes he’s being followed. And not by the cousin—he’d have noticed almost immediately. No, it’s by someone else.

Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe he’s just imagining things. Maybe it’s just sheer coincidence, really.

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself, glancing at a glass window and seeing a man in a grey hoodie. “And maybe Commander Vimes is going to willingly invite me to a dinner party when I get back.”

It’s not coincidence, he knows. It’s not paranoia or an active imagination, either. He’s a reporter, he can’t afford to let his imagination get away from him on the job, especially not right now. Thus, he’s being followed.

Bloody hell.

He sucks in a deep breath. He needs to lose this man somehow, he’s getting on his nerves and setting off all his alarm bells, for some reason.

So he ducks into a crowd, makes his way through (and keeps his personal belongings safe) and enters the hotel.

All in all, it’s a successful day, but he still can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched, even if the man in the grey hoodie doesn’t seem to be around.

Maybe his luck is starting to run out at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just far too amused by Wintler's propensity for shoving humorous vegetables at William to pass up the opportunity for his cousin to do the same here. I was, of course, a bit disappointed at the fact that he didn't really play much of a role in the book beyond comic relief, but hey, it's fun.
> 
> ...and I think the identity of the man in the grey hoodie is obvious enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ...jeez, I don't even.
> 
> Yes, there is a real Wigmore Court Hotel, near Baker Street. I looked it up on Google Maps, it takes three to four minutes to get there if you use transportation, I think? It's actually a three-star hotel, but it's near and it had some positive reviews.
> 
> Also, don't ask how Vetinari knows about William going to London. Let's just say he figured he'd go there to search for the truth and arranged matters so things would be significantly easier for him. Or harder, I dunno, it's Vetinari.


End file.
